


The Wolf of Santa Cecilia

by SatuD2



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alzheimer's Disease, Curses, Gen, Immortal character seeking death, Traditional werewolf, Urban Legends, immortal character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28605630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatuD2/pseuds/SatuD2
Summary: No one really believed in the wolf of Santa Cecilia. Certainly not Miguel Rivera. When Mama Elena tucked him into bed and told him of the naughty children who had crept from their windows and been snapped up by the slavering jaws of the creature, he’d considered them with a healthy scepticism.Until he is given a collection of family journals and decides he needs to investigate further.
Relationships: Héctor Rivera & Miguel Rivera, Mamá Coco & Héctor Rivera, Mamá Coco & Miguel Rivera
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	1. The Legend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaverickWerewolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverickWerewolf/gifts).



> A gift for MaverickWerewolf, using details from her excellent werewolf fact series to flesh out the lore. I hope you enjoy <3

No one really believed in the wolf of Santa Cecilia. Wolves had been all but eradicated after years of extermination, driven from any population centres and finding safety in protected wilderness. The idea that a lone wolf would lurk in the fields and pastures around Santa Cecilia was ludicrous. It was nothing more than a boogey man to keep the children inside after dark.

Miguel certainly didn’t believe the stories. When Mama Elena tucked him into bed and told him of the naughty children who had crept from their windows and been snapped up by the slavering jaws of the creature, he’d considered them with a healthy scepticism.

“Wolves don’t eat people,” he told her on one occasion, in the smug tones of a child who’s read his Encyclopaedia Of Everything and honed in on the wolf paragraph.

“Ay, m’ijo, this wolf is not like the others,” she had said, tapping the side of her nose and raising her eyebrows. “He is huge and vicious, and he’s always watching. Now go to sleep.”

And he had. But he’d never forgotten his grandmother’s words, the knowing look in her eyes and the vaguely ominous tone of her voice. 

It had been a few years later when he discovered Ernesto de la Cruz and the passion in his soul for music. A passion that his family could not abide. They’d banned all music from the home, after all, a retaliation for the abandonment poor Mama Imelda had gone through. Her husband, Miguel’s great-great-grandfather, had left her all alone to pursue a life of fame and exaltation. And his cruel selfishness had trickled down through the generations to smother Miguel’s joy.

In desperation, he would spend hours at the library, reading everything he could get his hands on about the superstar. In that time, the legend of the wolf became a handy cover for all the little bits of memorabilia he brought home.

One day, shortly after his thirteenth birthday, he came home with a biography of de la Cruz tucked into his jacket, his mother called him into the kitchen. He stood nervously in the doorway, the hardcover stabbing into his side as a reminder of his guilt.

“I found something I think you’ll like,” Luisa said as she shaped dough into loaves for dinner. “I left it in your room.” A knowing little smile and he felt a cold thrill up his back. “After all, the attic door is locked.”

“Ha, good one,” he said, with what he hoped was the right level of nonchalance, and sprinted to his room. There was a cardboard box on his bed, faded and weathered, and he nudged open the flap curiously.

Notebooks. Shiny, worn leather covers wrapping around pages that were yellow and crinkled, and marked seemingly at random with orange post it notes. The handwriting he spied was spindly and a bit faded, and he didn’t recognise the script. Why did Mama think he would be interested in a bunch of dusty old notebooks?

He shifted and the biography hidden in his shirt stabbed him again, so he quickly dumped it into the box and shuffled a few of the notebooks over the top. Perfect, no one would suspect.

Clearly his mother at least knew about his secret little study in the attic. Hopefully she assumed it was a den of investigation into the wolf and not the shrine to music and ofrenda to de la Cruz that it was. That meant he could bring these up there and read them in the privacy of his own space without worrying that Abel or Rosa were going to burst in and see the de la Cruz book. They would not hesitate to snitch on him to Mama Elena and he had no interest in being yelled at. Again.

Instead, he lifted the box up into his arm and snuck out of the hacienda, towards the secret entry to the entry around the back. Keeping his head down, his eyes watchful, and his footfalls silent.


	2. The Diaries

It was easy to get the box up into attic, pushing it through the loose shutter he’d found a few years ago. The roof wasn’t tall enough for him to stand, but he’d made a comfy little spot in the highest part of it with blankets and cushions. The shelves along the flat wall had vinyl records and an old CRT television he’d scavenged sitting on an equally battered VCR player. Paper marigolds and rows of papel picado hung in arcs beneath, always carefully positioned away from the stubby little candles on their metal discs. His guitar, bought from the school when they had been about to throw it out, leaned agains tthe wall. He tucked the biography up on the shelf beside the TV, ran his fingers over the strings of his guitar, and turned his attention back to the box of notebooks.

There were dates inside, written neatly in the top corner of each page, and it didn’t take him long to figure out what the post-its were for.

> _ December 5th, 1922 _
> 
> _ A wolf has been spotted around Santa Cecilia. For the first time in almost a decade. The farmers had driven them away, but this one is more persistent I suppose. The howls at night are awful. _
> 
> _ \- I _

“Mama Imelda?” Miguel murmured to the empty room, and counted back on his fingers. Mama Coco would have been a kid in 1922, not old enough to write in the delicate, slanted hand on this page. So these notebooks were the journal of his great-great-grandmother. A woman who had just begun her shoe business and was still haunted by the abandonment of her husband.

He flicked to the another post-it.

> _ May 12th, 1927 _
> 
> _ I saw the wolf in our courtyard today. I thought all the wolves were dead, but this one will not leave us alone. It doesn’t steal our food or try to hurt us, it’s just always here. Howling and huffing at the windows. I have to keep Coco inside. She’s not afraid of the beast in the slightest.  _
> 
> _ I can’t lose her too. _
> 
> _ \- I _

Was this the origin of the wolf legend? A rogue wolf terrorising a cobbler? That didn’t feel right. Where was the devouring of naughty children? The decimation of their cattle? The violence!? A wolf chilling in their central courtyard was awesome, sure, but not as much as one that also fought Tío Felipe and left a badass scar.

Another post-it.

> _ November 23rd, 1927 _
> 
> _ They killed the wolf today. The police came and shot it dead. I double checked it had no pulse, and watched them drag it away. It’s finally gone. We can get on with things. _
> 
> _ \- I _

Wait. Miguel frowned at the page, then glanced at the boxes of notebooks. There were a lot of post-its sticking out of their pages. Far more than the three it had taken for him to reach the beast’s death. How was that possible?

The next entry illuminated things a bit better.

> _ November 25th, 1927 _
> 
> _ It’s alive! The wolf is alive!  _

Here a lot of scribbling, only just masking some excellent profanity. Miguel made note of the wording for future use and grinned wickedly at Mama Imelda’s language. 

> _ I watched it die and now the bastard thing is awake again. I saw it in the fields as I came home from the market. This bloody beast will be the death of me, I’m sure. _
> 
> _ \- I _

The wolf had not been the death of Mama Imelda. She had died in her seventies of a stroke, Miguel knew, long before he had been born. It was strange though, reading these words. She would have been in her twenties when the wolf showed up, when she thought it had been killed, and his great-grandmother Coco, now an old woman with Alzheimers sitting in a wheelchair downstairs, had been just a baby.

The story of the wolf captivated him. He read entry after entry of Imelda’s diary, devouring each mention of the great wolf stalking the family. The books were out of order—no doubt his own fault for shuffling them over de la Cruz’s biography—but he found the stories fascinating regardless. Around 1940 the dates began to double with a second notebook in different handwriting, and he realised that Mama Coco must have begun writing her own journals.

Most of these entries were mentions of sightings. Nothing very tangible. That they’d seen a yellow gleam from the darkness on the walk home, or heard a howl drifting on a gentle breeze. No actual encounters, certainly nothing as exciting as it fighting Tío Óscar to the death. In most of Imelda’s entries it was listed as barely a footnote:

> _ Saw the wolf today. _

And then nothing further.

The most interesting entry was buried about halfway through the second box. It was another early one, from 1928, a year after the wolf had supposedly died. This one Miguel read over a few times, because initially he couldn’t understand.

> _ September 3rd, 1928 _
> 
> _ Coco is alive! I thought she was washed away in the river, I thought she had disappeared, but she is alive! I have never been so grateful, so thankful. The beast brought her home and she is safe. _

Then, another entry a few pages later that seemed to elaborate.

> _ I took her to the river with me. I don’t know why, I wanted to keep her close. Today is the anniversary _

More scribbles, these impossible to decipher. Irritated, Miguel skipped ahead.

> _ to forget, I brought Coco with me and as I washed, she fell into the deeper stream. I never heard her make a noise. There was a splash, and when I turned she was gone. _
> 
> _ Downriver, I could see her hair like ink in the water. I was screaming, at least Felipe told me later I was screaming, and then there was thunderous steps and an awful whine and the wolf was in the water and he had her. He had my Coco. Teeth as long as her arm but he held her so gently as he dragged her from the water. Her clothes aren’t even ripped. _
> 
> _ How did he know? _

Miguel felt goosebumps rise on his arms. Perhaps it was Mama Imelda referring to the wolf as a ‘he’ instead of an ‘it’ for the first time. Perhaps it was the thought that his Mama Coco had almost drowned in a river long before he’d been born and the only reason he existed right now was that a giant wolf had saved her.

With this entry in mind, he went back over the newer entries again. Where before he had attributed the short notes of sightings to fear or exhaustion, now he read a different note. More of an acknowledgement. A grudging acceptance. He reread one of Coco’s entries from the late sixties with a completely different emphasis, more distress than excitement now.

> _ August 13th, 1968 _
> 
> _ They shot the wolf! _

It seemed there was some understanding between his family and the wolf. As the years went on, the sightings became rarer and rarer. The post-its sticking from the sides of the journals fewer and fewer. The last entry that he could find was from just after his Mama Imelda’s death. He hadn’t known the exact date, but the tremble in the handwriting and the splotches of tears on the page brought the emotion in the words to the forefront.

> _ May 20th, 1972 _
> 
> _ Mama died today. She was in the workroom, sewing together a boot, and she just collapsed. She died in my arms and I never even got to say goodbye. _
> 
> _ When she died, I heard the wolf. Howling outside. The horror and pain and despair in that voice mirrored what I felt inside. _
> 
> _ I think he wishes he could have been there. Maybe he could have protected her better than I did. _
> 
> _ I’m sorry, Mama. _

Miguel sniffed hard and scrubbed at his face. Tried to imagine how it would feel if his mother died, and felt grief close a cold fist around his heart. He didn’t click off the light before he scurried downstairs to the workshop and hugged Luisa tightly, burying his face into her shirt. Surprised, she hugged him back.

“Are you okay, m’ijo? Have you been crying?”

“No, Mama,” he said, pointedly avoiding her eyes. “It’s just to say thank you for the notebooks.”

“Oh you’re welcome,” she said with a smile. “Mama Coco was very insistent that I show you. She spent ages going through and sticking those post-its in.”

He stepped back and gaped at her. “Mama Coco?” A quick glance over his shoulder. Mama Coco was sitting in her wheelchair in the sun, her eyes closed and a pleased smile on her face. He couldn’t remember the last time she had looked at him and known who he was. 

“Yes, she heard about the wolf and remembered all those old stories.” Luisa frowned and tapped her chin. “At least…she remembered the stories were written down somewhere. Why don’t you go talk to her about it, Miguel? I’m sure she’d like that.”

He nodded and awkwardly crept from the room. There was another notebook in her lap, he realised, though this one had no post-it notes adhered to the pages. It was thick, bulging with other loose papers, ones that he’d never seen before. He wondered for a moment what all those pieces could be, when she interrupted his thoughts.

“Miguelito,” she said as he sat beside her. When her eyes opened, they were bright and alert, the most present he’d seen her in years. “Were my notebooks interesting?”

“Yes, Mama Coco,” he said, flushing a bit. “I didn’t realise the wolf legend was based off a real wolf.”

“He’s still around, I think,” she said. There was a mixture of emotions on her wrinkled face, sadness and regret and some deeper feeling that he didn’t quite recognise all muddled together. “I sometimes see his eyes outside my window.”

Ice crept up Miguel’s spine and he shuddered unintentionally. 

“He’s keeping me safe,” Coco continued, ignoring Miguel’s reaction. “He keeps us all safe.” Her eyes grew vague, and fixed uncertainly on his face. “Miguel?”

“Yes, Mama Coco,” he said with a wide smile. This was a familiar look: she was slipping away again. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I’ll get you something to eat, you stay here in the sun.”

She caught his hand. “I love you, m’ijo.”

“Love you too, Mama Coco,” he said and kissed her cheek again. 

He brought her a peeled tangerine and tucked the pieces into her palm. Without any acknowledgement, she lifted the segment of fruit to her mouth and closed her eyes. He sat with her until the sun sank behind the walls of their hacienda and Mama Elena came out to bring her inside. Then dinner, where he shovelled his food into his mouth and expertly diverted any questions directed towards him. Thinking over the diaries and the secrets they held.


	3. The Investigation

Lying in bed afterwards, he was unable to get to sleep. The diary entries rolled through his head, electrifying his nerves, and he knew he couldn’t rest until he went out there and tried to find the wolf himself.

Perhaps that was foolish. The wolf was probably dead, after all, and even if it wasn’t was he really going to risk being snapped by an eighty year old wolf for the sake of curiosity?

He was a thirteen year old boy. Of course he was. He would risk everything in his life for the chance to quiet that incessant questioning voice.

It took forever for the rest of his family to go to sleep. Hours of lying in the dark and listening closely to the heavy footfalls of his elders, the whispering voice and occasional raucous burst of laughter. The twins started crying at one point, and Tío Berto soothed them with soft murmuring that was almost, but not quite, a lullaby.

No music, after all. Not allowed.

Eventually everything was completely silent. He lay motionless, singing through all of Ernesto de la Cruz’s first album in his head, before daring to slide from between the covers and into the courtyard.

He was sure to slide on his leather soled shoes, much quieter than his usual boots, and climbed easily over the wall of the hacienda to avoid the creak in the gate. 

The street was deserted. An eerie silence lay over Santa Cecilia, a silence he hadn’t heard before. The cobblestones shone silver beneath the half moon overhead, a gleaming semi-circle broach nestled in the diamond encrusted navy shroud of the sky. He’d never been out this late before, and it was hard to resist the thought that he had crept out into a completely different world. A fantasy world where giant wolves stalked the streets.

There was no sign of any wolf outside Mama Coco’s window. The street there was just as empty as everywhere else, and when he leaned forward he did not expect to see anything. Except, there was something here. Some wiry strands of sandy coloured fur. Marks on the wooden windowsill, shallow scratches crisscrossing each other. Some deeper than others. Clearly made over months and years, based on the wearing on some of them. An icy chill up his spine. Maybe it hadn’t been the wolf, but something had been looking through Mama Coco’s windows all these years.

He backed away, trying to ignore the twisting fear trying to claw through his brain. No point panicking. No point freaking out. And definitely no point running back inside. 

A sound behind him. Hoarse and soft. Like rubbing against a carpet the wrong way. His entire body prickled into goosebumps and, without turning around, he darted to the left and sprinted away. The cool night air raking through his hair. His breath a quick, panicked pant. Muscles burning. Adrenaline zinging through his nerves. 

He had never been so scared in all his life.

Fear turned his brain off. He ran mindlessly, not paying the slightest attention to where his feet were taking him. The cobbles gave way to packed dirt, and then to the loose loam of the tilled fields. He thought he could hear loping steps behind him, and that same soft, rough breathing.

The only time the sound behind him varied at all, was when the ground beneath his feet cracked and gave way.

He was swallowed by the earth. No time to even scream. Stale air rising in a cloud that enveloped him. And the even breathing behind him consolidating into a hard, quick chuff.

When he landed, his ankle twisted with a sharp pop that rushed up his legs. The ground here was uneven, compacted dirt and giant stones, and it took him a moment to realise where he was.

A dry well. 

What awful luck.

He craned his head back, panting and trying to blink away the sting of tears, only to see a dark shadow block out the half-moon. He thought he could see glowing yellow discs in place of its eyes, but surely that was impossible.

There was a long moment of silence where they stared at each other. The shadow and the boy in the well. An eternity stretching in the silence between them.

“Please don’t hurt me,” Miguel said finally. His voice thick and choked with tears. “I don’t want to be eaten.”

A beat. The shadow frozen motionless. Then a quick series of chuffing breaths that sounded not unlike laughter. It took only a second for the shadow to jump easily into the well, crowding close to Miguel. 

He was the biggest wolf that Miguel had ever seen. Jaws so big he could definitely be swallowed whole opened, revealing teeth that gleamed and dripped with saliva. Miguel, convinced he was going to be eaten, closed his eyes and promised that he would heed his abuelita’s warnings in his next life.

But he was not devoured. Instead a cold nose pressed against his cheek and blew warm air over his face. The jaws were closed when he opened his eyes, the teeth still peeking out from beneath black lips. The wolf huffed breath against his cheek again, then circled in the small space. His flank bumped up against Miguel’s arm, wiry fur scratching his skin.

“You’re not going to eat me?” Miguel asked.

The huffing laugh again and a very human-like shake of his head. The wolf leaned a bit closer and nudged Miguel’s hand with his muzzle. 

“I don’t understand.”

The wolf let out a low sigh, then opened his massive jaws and gently closed them around Miguel’s hand. Drawing it close and pushing it into the fur of his side. Miguel closed his hand and the wolf released his grip. Tongue lolling from his maw, eyes sparkling. He looked happy, and so Miguel shifted his other hand up onto the wolf’s flank as well. The skin beneath his thick coat was not smooth, he realised, but pocked and striped. He wondered for a moment what that was about, before the wolf rose onto his back legs and stretched upward. The movement pulled Miguel upright, and he gasped with surprise as the wolf easily leapt out of the well, dragging Miguel behind him. 

As soon as his feet met solid ground, Miguel released the wolf and fell backwards, his ankle screaming at him. The wolf turned and circled him. Huge paws padded softly on the soft ground, leaving no mark. Miguel realised he was being looked over with eyes that were bright and intelligent. 

“You’re not going to hurt me, are you?” he asked.

The wolf shook his head. Bent his head and pressed his nose to Miguel’s injured ankle. Shifting it with a gentle shove of his muzzle. 

Miguel hissed in a sharp breath. “Ow, hey, don’t.”

A quick glance. The look in those eyes was so familiar; he could almost see his father’s mouth slanting in disapproval beneath them. 

“Sorry, sorry. I won’t move,” Miguel said and wondered if he was going absolutely crazy.

Another nudge of the wolf’s muzzle, this one on the other side. His nose cool and dry as it pressed against the bony prominences on either side of Miguel’s ankle. Apparently satisfied, he stepped back a few paces and sat down, his tail curling around his flank. 

“You saved me,” Miguel said. “From the well, I mean.” He couldn’t help a laugh as he reached out and punched the wolf’s shoulder with one fist, ignoring how powerful the bunched muscle there felt. “Not that I woulda fallen if you hadn’t chased me.”

The wolf huffed at that. A dismissive little sound, this one reminding Miguel of the way his abuelita responded when he said he was full, before loading his plate up high with whatever delicious food she’d made that day. 

“You’ve been watching my family for a long time, haven’t you?”

A considered nod. The yellow gleam of his eyes masking any emotion. 

Miguel tapped his fingertips on his chin. “Look, my ankle still hurts a lot. Could you help me get home?”

There was no mistaking the distressed grimace that lifted the wolf’s lips, revealing the sharp white fangs in their entirety. Miguel wasn’t sure at first what the issue was, but a pointed look towards the horizon made it clear. A gentle rosy glow, warm red seeping into the navy black and slowly devouring the sparkling diamond stars.

“Oh…too far to go? You wouldn’t be able to get there in time?”

The wolf shook his head. Lifted one paw and carefully used a claw to draw a line then, looking up to make sure Miguel was watching, scribbled a line back.

“Not there and back, oh I get it! Getting back to wherever you’re living would take too long if you take me back.” Miguel snapped his fingers, a bright idea lighting up his eyes and a grin spreading over his face. “I know! You can hide in the attic in the day!”

Another grimace, accompanied with a nervous shudder that shook thick fur.

“No, no, it’s fine!” Miguel said quickly, holding up both his hands. “No one goes up there except for me, I promise you that. So long as you stay quiet, you can stay up there as long as you like.” 

This was clearly an attractive proposition. Some of the tension bunching up the wolf’s shoulders released, his tail relaxing to his side. He stood and circled close to Miguel, dropping down low. Yellow eyes gleaming as he looked over his shoulder with a pointed stare.

Miguel reached out and put his hands gently on the wolf’s back. Felt the wiry fur and powerful muscles. The pockmarked hide. “Would it be okay if I…got on your back?” he asked, a little awkwardly. 

The huffing laugh again, and a little twitch of his ears. Miguel could almost hear the voice—so like his father’s—saying, “Yes, that was the point.”

He lifted his sore ankle and swung his leg over the wolf’s back. Resting gingerly and picking his other foot off the ground. As soon as his weight was fully down and his hands were holding tight to the ruff of fur, the wolf stood and started to lope towards the lights of Santa Cecilia. Away from the sun that was threatening to lift its face over the horizon. The wolf was clearly familiar with the area. He leapt over fences and avoided farm houses. As they passed silently by, Miguel could hear people in their homes, getting ready for the day. Once in Santa Cecilia proper, the wolf expertly avoided the market and plaza, where people would be gathering, and brought them both to the Rivera hacienda.

“To the back,” Miguel whispered. 

With a huff and flick of his ears, the wolf obliged. Miguel climbed off his back and tested his ankle. It ached, but didn’t send that silvery bolt of pain up his leg. Good, not broken. Though the wolf had already checked that for him, it was good to get confirmation.

“It’s up here,” he said, and climbed the strategic stack of crates. The loose boards he lifted, holding them as far apart as he could. As the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon and shone directly into Miguel’s eyes, the wolf squeezed himself as flat as he could and wiggled into the attic space. Miguel did not follow, instead he poked his head through. “I need to get back to bed, Mama is going to come wake me up any minute now. You stay here and stay quiet. I’ll bring you some food tonight, okay?”

The wolf huffed an acknowledgement and squirmed deeper into the attic, claws scratching softly on the uneven boards. Miguel watched him go, then made sure the boards were in place and ran back to his room. Slid into bed without even taking off his shoes, and pretended to sleep.


	4. The Attic

It was a long, exhausting day. Running on the few seconds of sleep he’d managed to snatch before his mum had come in to wake him up had been hard, doing so with the knowledge that he had stashed a huge wolf in his attic the night before was even harder. He was desperate to go and look, to make sure it hadn’t been a dream.

At dinner he had to fight not to doze off on his plate. 

“Ay, m’ijo, what’s wrong with you tonight?” Luisa asked when he almost dropped his fork onto his plate for the third time. “Did you not sleep well?”

Excellent, an excuse. 

“No, Mama,” he said, yawning hugely. That was genuine at least. “I guess I’ll turn in early. Could I take a few tamales back to my room as a midnight snack?”

Luisa exchanged a glance with Enrique, who shrugged and ducked his head. “Fine,” she said, “but not _ in _ your bed, okay? I don’t want to come in and find you covered in ants.”

“Of course not,” Miguel said, feigning outrage, then scooped up a little stack of tamales onto his place and bolted from the dining room. He could hear Elena’s laughter as he did, and just knew she was making a comment about what a good growing boy he was.

Not that he was intending to eat the tamales at all. He hoped the wolf would like them.

He needn’t have worried.

As soon as he pushed his way up into the attic, the wolf was there, sniffing eagerly at the plate balanced on Miguel’s hands. “Here you go,” Miguel said, laughing, and watched in fascination as the wolf hoovered up each individual tamale. 

He almost seemed to savour them, not just tipping them down his throat but carefully positioning them between his fangs to tear open the dough and let the mince spill onto his tongue. 

“Nice, huh?” Miguel said, just to fill the silence a little. “My abuelita made them. They’re her speciality.”

The wolf’s eyes focused on him. In the light here, they were no longer glowing yellow. Instead, they were a warm brown with flecks of gold that caught the pale light of the lamp and glimmered as he moved. They were familiar in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. As the wolf ate, Miguel took the opportunity to examine him properly in actual light. Not solidly dark as he’d initially thought, instead the wolf’s coat was a sandy grey at his sides with black like heavy storm clouds darkening his back and tail. Soft white tufts framed a muzzle that was long and narrow, crisscrossed with silvery scars. 

The only thing that set him apart from the Mexican wolves Miguel had read about was his size. This wolf was huge, about as tall as he was, and about twice the length of the wolves he’d seen at the zoo.

He thought that he would stare at the wolf forever, until he happened to glance over towards his shelves and horror filled him.

“What did you do?” he groaned, managing to keep his voice low by the last thread of sense in his mind. If he screamed at the top of his lungs, the way he wanted to, his family would be up here in a second. “My stuff, I can’t believe this!”

Shouldering past the wolf was like brushing past a concrete pillar, but he didn’t even notice the collision. His attention was utterly consumed by the remains of his ofrenda to Ernesto de la Cruz.

And remains they were. The paper marigolds and papel picado were ripped to shreds of colourful confetti, scattered on the rough wooden boards. Records were scattered here and there, big scratches from the wolf’s teeth marring the vinyl, while the books and trinkets were chewed or crushed or torn apart. The sight of all of his hard work reduced to trash brought tears to his eyes.

“My ofrenda,” Miguel said, mournfully gathering the records into his arms. 

The wolf huffed behind him. A concerned little noise that ruffled the back of Miguel’s hair. 

“Why did you do that?” Whirling on his heels and spitting the question as though it were acid. Tears spilling down his cheeks. Rage trembling through his body.

Despite Miguel’s rage, the wolf did not turn away. He didn’t lash out or bare his teeth in a snarl either. Instead, he shifted closer to Miguel and touched his nose to one hand. Eyes dark and sorrowful. An apology, it seemed, though Miguel was too hurt and angry to fully process it. Pulling back, the wolf opened his mouth, tongue lolling free, and Miguel spotted something glinting in his mouth. The same golden glint as his favourite Ernesto de la Cruz figurine.

Without a thought, Miguel lunged forward and shoved his hand into the wolf’s mouth. There was a surprised huff of breath, the black lips drawing back away from the huge fangs that jabbed into the flesh of his arm. Ignoring the pain, Miguel reached as far as he could, fingertips skating over the glinting thing. It was rounded and irregular, and when the wolf coughed around his hand, he managed to grab a hold of the raised lip around the edge.

Whatever it was, it didn’t want to budge. He braced his feet against the sandy fur of the wolf’s chest and pulled back with all his strength. The wolf, to Miguel’s surprise, opened his mouth wider and tensed his neck, providing some opposing force. The thing in Miguel’s grip creaked, then snapped with a sudden jolt, sending him sprawling on the wooden floor with a heavy thud.

They both froze, staring at each other. Waiting for the creak of the attic door to open. After a long, breathless moment, Miguel finally shifted, sitting up and looking at the object in his hand. It was not, as he had thought, a figurine. It was a golden half-circle, the flat edge warped and bent where it had broken, with an embossed half-guitar visible. On the back was a single metal loop, and Miguel blinked at it. 

“A belt buckle?” he said softly, before looking up at the wolf and feeling his stomach drop and his anger dissipate into nothing.

The wolf was standing, filling the small space of the attic almost completely, his hackles raised and his pupils shrunk to pinpoints. An awful rough cough was rasping from his throat, his mouth wide and his fangs dripping with saliva. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Miguel scooted forward and, without any fear, patted his hand on the wolf’s back. “I’m sorry I thought it was mine.”

Another hacking cough, and then the wolf lifted his head, met Miguel’s eyes, and said, “Thanks, chamaco, that feels much better.”

  
  



	5. The Truth

Miguel blinked. 

The wolf blinked. 

They stared at each other with wide, uncomprehending eyes for a brief moment.

Miguel stifled a scream and scooted away from the wolf, both hands slapping forcefully over his mouth. In response, the wolf moved forward and lowered his muzzle in an apparent show of supplication. 

“Ay, kid, no don’t freak out, it’s okay.”

His voice was deep and warm, lowered to a soft murmur. If that voice wasn’t coming out of the dripping maw of a giant wolf, it would have been very soothing. As it was, it caught on Miguel’s brain like a fishhook and stretched reality into strange shapes.

“You’re a wolf,” Miguel said. “Why are you talking?”

The wolf balked at that, ears pinning back against his skull and his eyes widening with shock. “You can understand me?” he said in a breathless little voice. Then, firmly: “Wait, no. No, no, no. No one’s been able to hear me before. You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying,” Miguel spat back. 

“Dios mío, you’re really not,” the wolf said. He sat down heavily, eyes wide and fur bristling. When he next spoke his voice was low and vague. “You can hear me.” 

His head swung up, the muzzle narrowly missing Miguel’s face, and he lunged forward. Miguel had a brief momentary flash of terror. Warmth enveloped him as the wolf lay his head heavily on Miguel’s back and held him close to the soft fur of his chest. It was like a hug, Miguel realised after a second, as best as the wolf could manage anyway.

“Miguelito, you can hear me!” the wolf said, yelled almost.

Startled by the volume, Miguel immediately lifted his hand and shushed him. “Not so loud! My family will hear!”

“Family…” The wolf pulled away rapidly and stared directly into Miguel’s eyes. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Of course I do,” Miguel said, a hot flush spreading up his neck as he realised he had no real idea. “You’re the wolf of Santa Cecilia. From the legends.”

A pause. Then the wolf started laughing. A bubbly, infectious laugh, pulling from deep in his gut. Such a raucous peal that tears squeezed from his eyes and down his muzzle. He collapsed on his side, flanks heaving with mirth. 

“Ay, chamaco, that’s a good one!” he managed through his laughter. “The wolf! Ha!”

Miguel was steadily bristling, each giggle and snort a personal affront. Overcome with annoyance, he punched the wolf’s shoulder and said, “Hey, I’m not wrong! You are the wolf that’s been pestering my family all these years.”

“True, true.” The wolf hefted a sigh, tongue slapping on the side of his muzzle to collect the tears that had streaked there. “But I’m not just that! I’m your Papa Héctor!”

The name did not ring a bell. It echoed through the deepest corners of his memory and came up with nothing. Not knowing what else to say, he shrugged and said, “Never heard of you.”

Héctor’s laugh cut off, as though with a knife. He pushed himself up, his eyes wide and confused. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve not heard of you.” Miguel watched as Héctor flinched and lowered his head until his nose brushed the floorboards. “Should I have?”

Another flinch, this one severe enough that Héctor’s ears lay flat against his skull, one paw lifting to cover his eyes. “Ay, kid, you’re killing me,” he groaned, his voice thick and slow. Miguel realised, with a burst, that the change in quality came from a deep sorrow that radiated from every line in Héctor’s posture.

“I’m really sorry,” Miguel said quietly, stretching out one hand and resting it awkwardly on Héctor’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to-“ He cut himself off, not really sure what he was supposed to say.

Beneath his hand, he could feel a quick shuddering breath, and then Héctor bounced to his feet. Cracking his head on the ceiling without appearing to notice, and baring his long fangs in what appeared to be a smile.

“That’s fine! It’s okay, I understand.” His tone was bright and almost effervescent, completely the opposite of a few moments ago. He began to pace in tight circles, the raised hackles along his spine brushing against the roof and his claws scratching shallow lines in the floorboards. A rapid-fire barrage of words followed, all in the same light anachronistic tone. “Of  _ course _ Imelda never said anything, of _ course _ she was too hurt! I mean, what sort of husband goes off seeking his fortune and comes back as a  _ wolf!? _ A rubbish husband, that’s what sort.” His shoulder clipped one of the rafters and dust shook down on both of them. “I wouldn’t have forgiven me, not in a hundred years. It must have been a hundred by now, right? Maybe Coco will forgive me soon.”

Miguel had been quietly putting together the pieces, and on the next circle round he put out his hand and caught Héctor’s shoulder, halting him momentarily.

“Wait, wait, you said Imelda? Like my Mama Imelda? You’re her husband?”

Joy sparked in Héctor’s eyes and he nodded. “Yes! Mi amor, mi vida, she never forgave me for becoming a wolf.”

“I…uh.” Miguel hesitated, then patted Héctor’s shoulder in a commiserative gesture. “I don’t think she knew you were the wolf.”

Héctor blinked. Tilted his head as though considering the concept. Then laughed a little and said, “No, you’re mistaken, of course she knew I was the wolf. Otherwise she’d have just thought I’d abandoned her and…” He froze, eyes widening in horror. “She thought I abandoned her?”

There had been some dramatic swings in Héctor’s mood over the past ten minutes. Cautious to not push him too down again, Miguel sat down beside Héctor and said quietly, “She appreciated you when you saved Mama Coco though. When she fell in the river? Even though she didn’t know who you were.”

“Imelda only took her eyes away for a moment,” Héctor said wistfully. “She didn’t think Coco was so fast in those nice new boots. I’m glad I was there. That’s the only time I’ve been able to hold my little girl, in a manner of speaking.” He glanced over to Miguel, eyes swimming with tears. “Does she speak well of me? As a wolf or…a dad?”

“She doesn’t remember much any more,” Miguel said quietly. “She gave me those journals in the corner; they had all the stories from both her and Mama Imelda about the wolf.” A moment of hesitation. “And of course the stories from Mama Elena about the wolf that eats up naughty children.”

Héctor laughed at that, turning and lifting his lips to reveal his fangs. For the first time since he’d begun talking, Miguel noticed a scrap of paper stuck between two of his back teeth. 

“My poster,” he said a little mournfully, reaching out and pulling the paper free. Spreading it out, he saw the warped grin of Ernesto de la Cruz, soaked in saliva and torn almost completely in half. “Why did you wreck all my stuff? It took me forever to get everything up here.”

When he proffered the torn poster towards Héctor, the wolf’s playful baring of fangs hardened and became a genuine snarl. “Ernesto de la Cruz,” he said in a voice like acid. “I thought he was my friend but he stabbed me in the back.”

“You knew Ernesto de la Cruz?” Miguel asked, before the rest of the words sunk in and he gasped, “Wait, he stabbed you!?”

“Not literally, m’ijo.” Héctor stood and turned in a tight circle again, his tail brushing against his nose and his hackles raised enough to sweep against the ceiling. “It’s thanks to him that I’m a wolf.”


	6. The Curse

There was a long moment of silence, during which Miguel could faintly hear his heart beating hard in his ears. When he finally spoke it was in a hoarse whisper, “What do you mean?”

“He cursed me,” Héctor said. “I tried to cut the tour short, to come home to Santa Cecilia. But Ernesto didn’t want me to go. He needed me to stay, for the songs I’d written, the songs I was still writing. Before I left, he poisoned me and while I was dying I think he panicked. I don’t think he  _ meant _ to trap me as a wolf, maybe he was just trying to help me. Regardless, next thing I know everything is cracking and moving and Ernesto is throwing me out onto the streets of Mexico City.”

Héctor glowered at the middle distance while Miguel processed this information. A light bulb flash, a spark of familiarity. Without a word, he scrambled to the shelves and found the biography he had borrowed from the library that day. The cover, previously featuring a glamour shot of Ernesto de la Cruz’s charismatic smile, was now a chewed up mess of pulp. The pages inside were untouched though, and while Miguel mourned the fact he would have to pay for this copy, he was relieved that the actual words were still legible.

He flipped to the appropriate section and began reading aloud, “Early in de la Cruz’s esteemed career, he often travelled with another young musician—pictured below—prior to his first big break in Mexico City.” 

A moment of hesitation, before he turned the book around and pointed to the glossy black and white print that took up half the page. It was a photo of a train platform, small groups of people standing at irregular intervals. Ernesto de la Cruz was not the focus of the picture—a young woman holding a toddler was the central figure—and instead was standing off to one side with a guitar case in one hand and his head thrown back with laughter. Beside him stood a thin man, his guitar case slung over his shoulder. He was at a quarter profile, facing away from the camera, and only the angle of his cheekbone and tip of his nose was really visible of his face, tilted down to his friend’s face. One hand was raised in a flippant gesture, long fingers blurred with movement. Miguel tapped a finger on this man and raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Héctor. 

“That’s me,” Héctor said in a choked little voice. “We went through so many little towns, I don’t even know where we were.” He leaned forward, touching his nose to the printed image of himself. “I miss having hands.”

The statement was so unexpected that Miguel couldn’t help a snort. Héctor shot him a narrowed glare with vague hurt in his eyes. “Sorry,” Miguel said, trying to avoid another giggle. “It’s just such an image.”

“That’s fair.” Héctor slumped to the ground and lay on his side, tongue lolling onto the ground. “I can talk now at least. That’s not going to help when a farmer gets his sights on me, but at least I can talk to my great-great-great…” He trailed off, eyes unfocusing, mouthing the word ‘great’ a few more times. “Ay, m’ijo, how many greats are you my grandson?”

“Two?” Miguel counted on his fingers and nodded. “Yeah, two. Hey, Héctor?”

“Yes, m’ijo.” Héctor lifted his head a little.

Miguel nibbled his lower lip and rubbed the back of his head, before asking in a quiet, uncertain voice, “What are we going to do now?”

“We cure me, of course,” Héctor said, in a tone that made it very clear that this was obvious. “And then I can die.”

“Die?” Miguel slapped a hand over his mouth, aware that his shock had lifted his voice almost to a yell. Lifting his hand, he whispered, “What do you mean ‘die’?”

Héctor huffed and closed his eyes. “Run your hand down my side, m’ijo. Go on, I won’t bite.”

Reaching out a hand that was shaking more than necessary, Miguel threaded his fingers through the wiry fur and down Héctor’s side. Again feeling divots and lines. Deep hollows and raised slashes. More scars than he could really parse.

“They’ve been trying to kill me for many years,” Héctor said softly. “There was a while there, in the early days, when I would seek out the farmers and the police of Santa Cecilia so they could free me from this curse. It never worked. No matter how badly I was injured, the wounds would knit themselves back together and I would regain my strength until it was like I had never been hurt in the first place. With a scar to remind me of my folly.”

“But wouldn’t you want to be…a man again? Spend time with us?” Miguel asked, flushing as he realised how ridiculous the question was.

Héctor lifted his head again and fixed Miguel with a narrowed stare. “I’ve been alive for so long, m’ijo. As a wolf, I watched my wife die, my daughter grow old. I watched her children and her children’s children grow and laugh together. Though I would love to spend time with you all, to live and laugh with you, I am tired as well.” He laughed, a light bubbly sound that contrasted with the tears welling in his eyes. “It wouldn’t surprise me if the curse is the only thing keeping me alive at this point.”

Aware that tears were stinging his eyes, Miguel shook his head. “No, it’s not fair. You didn’t abandon Mama Imelda! You loved her, all the way to the end! You should get to live a life with your family.”

“Hush, hush, it’s okay.” Héctor sat up and put his head over Miguel’s shoulder, nudging him into the ruff of fur on his chest. Vision blurred, Miguel gripped him tight and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears soaked into Héctor’s chest. “Listen to me, Miguel. Life isn’t always fair, it’s not always just. All I’ve wanted these long years is to be with my family again. To hold my daughter. To have her look at me and see her papa. But these things can’t always be, and I’ve learned to accept that.”

The words sank deep into Miguel’s heart. Héctor could accept it maybe, but Miguel would not. No matter what it took, he would fight this. It took time, however, for his sobbing to settle enough for him to put his feelings into words. When he felt steady enough, he pulled back and looked Héctor in the eye.

“Let’s go see Mama Coco then,” he said, seeing the shock that Héctor’s eyes and shrank his pupils to pinpoints. “Let her see you.” Then, quickly, not giving him the chance to protest, he darted over to the loose shutter and pushed out into cool night air. 

It was still. Quiet. Below, the hacienda was dark and silent, no sign that any of the family was awake. Miguel clambered down to the ground and gestured for Héctor to follow him. After a moment of hesitation, his long muzzle just visible through the opening, Héctor did, leaping gracefully from the opening. He continued to follow, even as Miguel crept through the front gate and towards the bedrooms.

“Are you sure about this, m’ijo?” Héctor whispered. His paws were absolutely silent on the stone floor, but his broad shoulders filled the corridor almost completely and brushed worryingly against the various knicknacks displayed here. 

“Yes, yes, I’m completely sure. Now shush, this is Abuelita’s room.”

Héctor’s lip lifted, revealing his fangs, but he dutifully kept quiet until they were well past Elena’s room. Indeed, they both remained silent until Miguel halted outside of Coco’s room. 

“I don’t think I can go in there,” Héctor said softly, his eyes fixed on the door. “What if she’s terrified of me?”

Miguel couldn’t help but smile. “Mama Coco sees the heart of people,” he said. “She will see your heart, I know it.” Putting a hand on the doorknob, he raised both eyebrows. “When you’re ready.”

The silence that followed seemed like the world was holding its breath. When Héctor nodded, Miguel didn’t hesitate, just turned the knob and pushed the door open.


	7. The Cure

Héctor entered the room first. It was completely dark inside, and when Miguel followed he snapped on the lamp near the door. The light blinded him momentarily—he’d been more accustomed to the darkness than he’d realised—and he rubbed at his eyes to clear his vision.

When he finally was able to see more than fuzzy shapes, he saw that Héctor was standing by Coco’s bedside, his head lowered and his ears pinned back. He was like a statue. Huge and broad. Filling the small space. It barely looked like he was breathing.

“Héctor?” Miguel said sofly. Aware that, even as he stepped forward, that he was careful not to brush against the thick fur of the wolf. “Are you okay?”

A short pause. When Héctor spoke his voice was low and choked. “She’s so…old.” He shook his head and added quickly, “I knew she was old, of course I did, but it’s different. Seeing her through the window and standing here.” He moved his head forward and his nose almost—but not quite—brushed against her hand. “I’ve missed so much.”

Miguel opened his mouth to respond, then froze. Gaze snapping to the bed where his eyes met Coco’s for the briefest moment—hers bright and alert and aware— before she turned them away from him and towards the wolf.

“Papa,” Coco said in a low croaky voice. Moving her hand so her fingertips brushed against Héctor’s muzzle. “You came home.”

Héctor’s ears sprung up from their pinned back position. His jaws opened wide, a grin that was frankly a little terrifying to see, though Coco didn’t flinch away. “Coco, mi vida,” he murmured and pushed his muzzle firmer into her palm. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Sitting up was clearly difficult. Her face contorted with effort as she pushed herself upright, and Miguel rushed forward to help her. Putting his arm around her shoulder and helping her up. She swung her legs out of the bed too. Then threw her arms around Héctor and hugged him tight.

“You saved me,” she said. Pressing kiss after kiss to the wolf’s cheeks. “Thank you, Papa.”

Héctor tried to speak. Miguel could see his lips moving over his fangs, his throat working beneath the fur. Instead of words, however, there was only a low, keening sound, almost but not quite a wail. This flattened, softened, and became a song. Words that Miguel was deeply familiar with, but sung to a slow, soothing tempo, a lullaby.

Tears sprang into Coco’s eyes, visible even from Miguel’s place outside the embrace, and with a voice hoarse with years neglected, she joined in. Their voices mingled, complemented each other perfectly despite how out of practice she clearly was, and Miguel scrubbed away tears of his own before anyone could see.

When the song was over, they were silent for a long time. Only the soft irregularity of their breath betrayed the emotion they were experiencing. Miguel sat at the head of the bed, watching, aware of how private the moment seemed and how awkward it was for him to be there. To his surprise, when he sat down, Coco reached out one arm and dragged him into the hug. 

“Thank you, Miguelito,” she said, “for bringing Papa home.”

Miguel relished being addressed by his proper name. Half the time she thought he was his father or other kids she’d watched grow up, the rest that he was a stranger. Being seen, properly seen by her made his heart warm.

Her hand was running up and down Héctor’s back, and hesitated between his shoulder blades, fingers buried deep into his fur.

“Papa? Are you wearing a pendant?”

“No, m’ija.” Héctor shuddered as she tugged. Eyes widening and fangs bearing in a snarl. “Ow, gentle.”

“I just need to work it free,” she said. Leaning forward and hugging him tight, both hands went to work on whatever it was that was there. 

Miguel caught a glimpse of gold glinting in the lamplight, and gasped: “Wait, Mama Coco!”

Too late. Coco pulled the other half of the belt buckle free from Héctor’s fur: a belt buckle that he had been sure was lodged deep in the wolf’s digestive tract and definitely not in the fur on his back. Héctor groaned and slumped forward into her, his eyes sliding shut.

Horrified, Miguel watched as the giant wolf shivered and shrank. Bones popped and joints cracked. Rearranging themselves in frantic, vicious snaps. Thick fur bristled, then receded, sinking into skin that was dark and lined with silver scars. As Héctor’s form resolved into a human shape, Miguel was aware that he was wearing a pale charro suit, cheap and torn. The face that lifted from Coco’s shoulder was shockingly young. The same silhouette as had been printed in de la Cruz’s biography.

Héctor, a man again, held his daughter’s face in long fingered hands. Smiled a huge, dopey smile, a gold tooth winking in the light from the lamp. He had a dimple in his left cheek, and Miguel was suddenly aware where he’d inherited his own dimple from. 

“Thank you, Coco,” Héctor said quietly. “I can rest now.” Leaning his head on Coco’s shoulder. His hair was slowly turning grey, Miguel noticed, and the eyes that slid closed were increasingly creased with lines.

Coco’s eyes shifted. Met Miguel’s. They were the same as Héctor’s, he noticed, the same warm dark brown dancing with hints of gold. “Time to go to bed, Miguelito. I’ll look after him now.”

Before he did, Miguel leaned forward into the hug again and rested his hand on Héctor’s cheek. Now heavily wrinkled eyelids cracked open and fixed on him. A weary little smile lighting up his face. 

“I’m glad I got to meet you, Papa Héctor,” Miguel said. “Thank you for saving me. I’ll never forget you.”

Héctor nodded. His eyes slid shut again. Aware that tears were sliding freely down his face, Miguel leant forward, kissed Coco’s cheek, then crept from the room. Closing the door tight behind him. He leaned against the wall for a moment, feeling his heart beating hard and fast in his throat. Not sure if it was the lack of sleep, or the dreamlike quality of the last forty-eight hours, but he was distantly aware of grief rising in him. It was an ache, deep in his chest, and the thought of looking at it any closer was unthinkable. He would break down if he did. 

The walk back to his room was lonely and silent. He left his door ajar and slipped into bed fully clothed, hugging his pillow tight against his chest. Staring ahead into the darkness. Eventually sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Enrique woke him early the next morning by sitting on his bed and stroking his hair. “Miguel,” he said in a low, choked voice. “Wake up, m’ijo, I have some bad news.”

Of course, he knew before the words were out. That didn’t stop the grief hitting him like a freight train. He collapsed into Enrique’s arms, sobbing into his shoulder. Feeling his father’s tears wetting his hair. They wept together, and then when they thought the storm had passed, they stood and went into the corridor. The rest of the family was here, all wide-eyed and disbelieving. Knowing the brief respite of their grief was over soon, that the eye of the hurricane was rapidly passing over, Miguel steeled himself.

Elena approached him. Wrinkled face streaked with tears, eyes rimmed with red and still brimming. In her hands was the notebook Miguel had noticed on Coco’s lap before. The cover bulging with loose scraps of paper. She offered it to him, and he saw the note tucked into the band holding the book closed.

> _ For Miguel - to answer all your questions. _

Miguel took the book. Surprised by how heavy it was. He flipped the elastic strap back, the cover creaking under the pressure, and opened to the front page. There, in Coco Rivera’s surprisingly steady hand, was one sentence. Enough to flip their whole family upside down.

> _ Héctor Rivera—husband of Imelda Rivera and my loving father—was the Wolf of Santa Cecilia. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mav: I hope you enjoyed <3


End file.
